war for the merrymakers
by sarsaparillia
Summary: The slave auctions leave her with a sour taste in her mouth. — Ririchiyo/Soushi.
1. buy it

**disclaimer**: disclaimed.  
><strong>dedication<strong>: to Chloe, for sailing this ship with me.  
><strong>notes<strong>: yup. more little drabble fics.

**title**: buy it  
><strong>summary<strong>: The slave auctions leave her with a sour taste in her mouth. — Ririchiyo/Soushi.

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The slave auctions were a Shirakiin family tradition.

In typical fashion, they were a Shirakiin family tradition that Ririchiyo _hated_.

The outings themselves weren't so bad, because it wasn't like Ririchiyo was allowed all that often to be outside on her own; but it was the whole idea of _owning_ another person that made her rage. There was something dirty about it that she couldn't quite put her finger on, but she wanted no part of it.

Also in typical fashion, her father didn't really give her a choice.

"Come along, Ririchiyo. It's high time you had a slave of your own."

"Only idiots require slave assistance. _I_ do not, I'll have you know," Ririchiyo retorted. She would not feel guilty for this behaviour, _she would not_. It was completely justified. _Completely justified_.

Her father said nothing. He simply shook his head, as though he was wondering why he even spoke to her.

Actually, a lot of the time Ririchiyo wondered that, too.

The palanquin shuddered to a halt. Her father eyed her only once, and pushed the door open. "Come, Ririchiyo."

"No."

"Now, Ririchiyo," he commanded imperiously.

The look he gave her alone was enough to gall her into movement. She fought not to bare her teeth in his direction, and bowed her head with the pretense of minding her skirts to hide the disgust seething from her every pore. Ririchiyo descended from the palanquin, adjusted herself, and walked three steps ahead of her father just because she could.

(She was the sole inheritor of the House of Shirakiin. She could do whatever she damned well pleased.)

The auctions were loud, rowdy—horrible. The stink of sweat was thick in the air, the mindless chatter of the masses already working on giving her a headache.

"These people are peasants," she told her father, lips pulled up in a sneer. She had nothing but contempt for those that took amusement from the misfortune of so many. She had nothing but contempt for any of this.

"Yes, darling," her father soothed. "They are."

Ririchiyo was not to be pacified. She tossed her hair over her shoulder in a wave of dark violet, and ascended the stair to the Shirakiin box. She would have none of this; she would have _none_ of it!

The very thought of it made her sick to her stomach.

She sat down on deep red plush, crossed her arms, and waited for this spectacle to end.

Her father sat, and the commentary begun.

"How about that one? Very… strong-looking, don't you think?"

and

"You mother would approve of that girl, though perhaps she's too slender to be of any real use…"

and

"Ah, Ririchiyo, look! That one is satisfactory; he looks like he'd take a bullet for you."

Ririchiyo closed her eyes and counted her breaths to stop herself from screaming.

But then came something different:

"Oh no. No, that isn't acceptable at all. That hair—no. Absolutely not."

Ririchiyo's eyes snapped open.

(It wasn't very often that her father said _no_ to a slave.)

She looked down at the podium, and found the slave her father was looking at. He was pale as she was, with hair as white as snow. His gaze was trained downward, but as Ririchiyo stared holes in his collarbones, he glanced upwards as though he could feel the weight of her gaze.

His eyes were mismatched.

Ririchiyo had never seen anything like it.

The moment went on unbroken for some time. It went on until they started the bidding, and the screaming of the crowd shook her of her reverie.

But in those bare seconds, something shifted and clicked into place, and Ririchiyo thought that it was something essential, something deep inside. Something that perhaps could not go back to the way it was.

She didn't care.

Ririchiyo turned to her father and looked him in the eye. "I want him."

Her father was baffled. "But—Ririchiyo, he's—"

"You said I could have anyone I wanted, father. I want him," she repeated.

The man floundered.

"Father," she said, "_please_."

"I—well, alright," he said at last. He motioned to the man standing uncomfortably straight at his shoulder, and when the man bent, he whispered confidingly into his ear. Ririchiyo paid none of it any mind.

The boy on the stage was as different as she was.

She was sure of it.

_tbc_.


	2. use it

**disclaimer**: disclaimed.  
><strong>dedication<strong>: to Chloe, as per usual. you skank. /fond  
><strong>notes<strong>: why can't I write anything normal.

**title**: use it  
><strong>summary<strong>: The slave auctions leave her with a sour taste in her mouth. — AU; Ririchiyo/Soushi.

—

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He was very quiet.

That was Ririchiyo noticed first.

He was very, very quiet and very, very still; it was like he feared moving in her presence, and Ririchiyo was not sure what she was supposed to make of it. He watched her with slit eyes, the muscles in his cheek twitching as he clenched his jaw.

Sometimes she wondered if he thought she was going to wrap her hands around his throat.

That would explain his fear, at the very least.

But mostly Ririchiyo ignored him.

It was easier than, say, trying to make friends—after all, Ririchiyo was no good at friendship, and she knew that. Because she was _mean_, even if she never meant to be. She was mean because she knew how to say things that would hurt. She was mean because mean was better than being hurt.

And Ririchiyo was so tired of being hurt.

She sat in the middle of her bare room, and sipped perfectly brewed coffee.

He stood by the door, and didn't move.

Lace and linen were easy things for the daughter of the Shiirakin house, but not so much courtesy. Ririchiyo grit her teeth, and tried to force the words out.

"Sit _down_, you fool."

(And of course it came out all wrong. Ririchiyo contemplated dunking her head in a bucket of cold water.)

He looked startled. Slid down to his knees. Bent so low, he touched his forehead to the floor. "Pardon, lady, I meant no offense—"

Ririchiyo hated that pose.

It made her think of cages.

"No, stupid," she sighed. "I mean over _here_. And what am I supposed to call you? I can't just go on calling you _fool_, though I'm sure it's accur—"

She cut the word off there, turning dull red.

(She was going to have to work on that _apology_ thing.)

But he seemed to have taken no offense at all.

Like it hadn't even mattered.

Still, he didn't move.

"Would you _quit_ that_?_!" she finally exploded. She stood and stomped across the floor, grabbed him by the lapels of his shirt, and forced him to stand up, pressed nose-to-nose. "You're a _person_, not a _dog_! Stop _grovelling_ like one! You have a _name_ and _feelings_ and this is—this is _ugly_! Stop it!"

He stared down at her, face completely impassive. The two-coloured gaze was uncanny and eerily blank, like he wasn't even there at all.

Ririchiyo fought the urge to shrink back.

In response to the sudden fear, she intensified the glare.

(That probably wouldn't work, but it was better than nothing.)

"Lady," he said, "you'll hurt yourself."

But he did not dare to touch her, and Ririchiyo _raged_.

"What is your _name?_!" she hissed. "I know you have one! _Everyone_ has one! What's _yours?_!"

He opened his mouth to say something, but Ririchiyo scoffed. "Not the one they gave you at the pen, moron. Your _real_ name."

His mouth snapped closed, and he looked away.

"Tell me," she insisted.

He did not look her in the eye.

"Soushi," he said at last. "Miketsukami Soushi."

Ririchiyo released the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She took a miniscule step back, fingers still wound into his shirt. "Miketsukami-kun. I like that. Okay. That's what I'll call you. It's nicer than _stupid_, anyway."

Another step backwards, and she finally released him.

"You belong to me. You understand that, right?"

"Yes," he said.

"Good," and she tossed her hair over her shoulder. She could feel his eyes track the movement, still wary. She reached for the beaker that held her coffee, and poured an extra mug.

She didn't say anything else.

But she thought that maybe he understood anyway.

_tbc_.


End file.
